


For the Better

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [42]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8th May, 1999: Scotland prepares to move out of England's house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Better

**8th May, 1999; London, England**  
  
  
There are several things that Wales would rather not see at four o'clock in the morning, and although Scotland wearing nothing but his boxer shorts might not be first on that list, it's definitely in the top ten.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asks, putting aside the golf club he'd grabbed hold of when he thought the noise that'd awoken him was caused by something as prosaic as a burglar.  
  
"Wales," Scotland says, sounding happily surprised. He spins around inelegantly, legs tangling together for a moment and almost unbalancing him. "Come to join me?"  
  
"Call me old-fashioned, but at this time of night I generally prefer to sleep rather than crash around the hall in my underwear drinking" – Wales glances at the bottle clutched in Scotland's left hand – "cooking sherry? Really, _Yr Alban_?"  
  
"Fucking England's hidden all the good stuff, the bastard," Scotland says, scowling at the ceiling in the vague direction of England's bedroom.  
  
Loath as he is to admit it even to himself, Wales can hardly blame England for that. Scotland hasn't stopped drinking for a full two days now, and nothing is safe from his seemingly unquenchable thirst, vintage clarets being quaffed with the same disregard and rapacity as, apparently, cooking sherry. Until now, however, Scotland's drunkenness has been confined to more suitable venues – namely his own bedroom – at night and not let loose to roam around the house practically naked. Really, he's lucky that England discovered long ago that the only way he was guaranteed to have a decent night's sleep was to invest in ear plugs.  
  
"So, you never answered my question: what the hell are you doing?" Wales asks, and not without a certain amount of trepidation in case his brother's state of undress is intrinsic to the answer.  
  
"Saying goodbye."  
  
"To what?"  
  
"Everything." Scotland sweeps one arm out expansively, and then spins unsteadily on his heel to turn his wide grin upon the paintings hanging on the far wall. "Goodbye, ugly rectangular cows, I won't miss you at all." He moves on to the display shelf near the front door. "Goodbye, creepy little porcelain children and your equally creepy dogs, I –"  
  
"What's going on?" a tired-sounding voice asks from the top of the stairs, croaky and rough with disturbed sleep.  
  
"Fucking hell," Wales mutters under his breath before leaning around the bottom baluster of the banister to smile encouragingly up at Northern Ireland. "It's nothing, _Gogledd_ , just your big brother being even more of an arse than usual. You go back to bed."  
  
One of Scotland's huge hands lands heavily on Wales' shoulder, pulling him back. "Jesus, sometimes you sound so much like England it's frightening. If the lad wants to stay up, then let him; he's not a little kid anymore, in case you hadn't noticed," he hisses close to Wales' ear, then, a little louder, waving the sherry towards Northern Ireland. "Don't listen to him; come here and get some of this down your neck."  
  
Wales crosses his arms firmly over his chest and glares at Scotland. "I really don't think he should be –"  
  
"England," Scotland reminds him, eyes narrowing to glittering slits, and Wales' mouth slams shut seemingly of its own volition.  
  
Northern Ireland squints suspiciously at the bottle as he pads down the stairs, his bare feet striking the polished wood almost silently. "Is that the cooking sherry?"  
  
"Yes, it's the fucking cooking sherry," Scotland snaps irritably, "but it'll get you just as pissed as anything else if you drink enough of it."  
  
Northern Ireland takes the bottle from Scotland's outstretched hand, and grimaces when he lifts the mouth to his lips, though he downs a long draught, regardless.  
  
"Good lad," Scotland says, ruffling Northern Ireland's already mussed red hair. Wales thinks he probably wouldn't sound any more or less proud if Northern Ireland had just scaled Everest.  
  
Northern Ireland gags like he's just swallowed a mouthful of spoiled milk laced with arsenic, and then contentiously wipes both his mouth and the bottle's with his pyjama sleeve. "Here, you have to have some, too," he says, passing the sherry to Wales in an obvious attempt to share the pain in the same way he does when forced to eat England's – or, even worse, Scotland's – cooking.  
  
Wales stares at the bottle in his hands. Really, the only sensible thing to do is to go back to bed, and make sure Scotland gets back to his own on the way. On the other hand, he's pretty much wide awake now, and a little sip, just to show willing, isn't going to do any harm.

 

* * *

  
  
Wales isn't sure how much time has passed, but judging by the warm pink glow that's started to gently suffuse the hallway, it's edging towards daylight outside.  
  
Northern Ireland had passed out not long after they'd opened the rather astringent red wine Scotland had found hidden behind the tinned tomatoes in the kitchen, and is snoring gently, his head pillowed in Wales' lap. Scotland is apparently bidding every single one of the floor tiles farewell from his face-down sprawl on Wales' other side.  
  
"Don't you think you're being a bit premature," Wales asks him, voice hushed to avoid waking Northern Ireland. "I mean, the paperwork's not even finished on your new house yet."  
  
"I'm moving out at the end of the week even if I have to squat under a fucking bridge when I get up to Edinburgh." Scotland tilts his head, blinking perplexedly at Wales. "Come on, I've put up with his shit day in, day out, for nearly three hundred years now; you don't honestly expect me to be calm and bloody collected about it, do you?"  
  
Wales shrugs. He has been happy for Scotland since the moment the referendum result was announced, but it still seems strange, unsettling, to think that he'll be gone soon. Wales himself has been scouring estate agents in Cardiff for his own house, and with any luck won't remain with England for long after his brother has left, but his own emotions surrounding that are a complicated tangle he hasn't even begun to unravel yet, and the absolute clarity of Scotland's joy still has something of an alien feel to it.  
  
"You're not going to miss _anything_ about living here?"  
  
Scotland's brow furrows as he mulls the question over. "Not having to do my own housework?" he says after a moment, sounding a little uncertain about even that.  
  
"Oh," Wales says, feeling slightly disappointed for some reason he can't quite put his finger on.  
  
Scotland watches him for a while, eyebrows still drawn together, and then he laughs suddenly. "You were expecting me to say I'd miss you, weren't _you_?" he says, once he's caught his breath.  
  
"No," Wales says, even as he realises that although he would never have expected Scotland to say it, he did kind of _want_ him to. "Of course not."  
  
"Yes you did," Scotland crows, sounding horrifyingly delighted at the thought. He pushes himself up to his knees, and then drapes one arm over Wales' shoulders, pulling him close in a way he never would if he were sober. "You're such a soppy bastard, Wales."  
  
Wales clenches his jaw and grinds out, "Fuck off," between his gritted teeth. Scotland stinks of stale sweat and cheap alcohol, and there's far too much bare skin pressed up against Wales' side for comfort. Wales would try and shove him away if it didn't by necessity mean touching rather more of it than he'd like.  
  
"Don't you worry, little brother," Scotland almost purrs, "you can visit me any time you like."  
  
"Really, you can fuck off right now," Wales says, squirming against Scotland's hold as best he can without jostling Northern Ireland's head too badly. Scotland is, as he always has been, too strong, however, and Wales fails to break free.  
  
"I mean it," Scotland says with mock seriousness, planting a horribly sloppy kiss in the centre of Wales' forehead. "If you ever feel like you can't spend another moment without –"  
  
Wales smothers the rest of the words by placing his hand over Scotland's face, and pushes as hard as he can. Scotland goes down easily, falling flat on his back, and laughing hard enough that Wales is surprised he doesn't crack a rib.  
  
"I know I've said this before," Wales says, glowering at his brother, "but, believe me, it can't be said often enough: you are a complete wanker."  
  
Northern Ireland stirs slightly, nose wrinkling as he mumbles something wordless but still distinctly irritated. Wales sighs and pets his brother's hair soothingly until he relaxes again, trying to ignore the sound of Scotland's unrestrained mirth beside him.  
  
In time, Scotland laughs himself hoarse and silence descends. Wales still can't bring himself to look at him, however, and watches the hazy sunlight crawl lazily across the ugly rectangular cow paintings, glittering off the dust accumulated at the corners of the frames that has somehow managed to escape even England's zealous cleaning regime.  
  
"I suppose it will be weird to be on my own again," Scotland says eventually, low and quick, as though he'd prefer Wales not hear him.  
  
It's as close to an acknowledgment that he will be missed as Wales is ever likely to get, and it chases away the heat of embarrassment that had pooled uncomfortably at the base of his spine. He turns his head to look at his brother, but Scotland studiously avoids his eyes.  
  
"I doubt you'll last a week. You don’t even know how to work a washing machine," he teases, because it's easier than saying 'thank you'.  
  
"Bugger off," Scotland says, taking a swig of the disgusting wine. "I managed fine before, didn't I?"  
  
"You had _servants_ back then," Wales reminds him.  
  
"Drink some of this," Scotland thrusts the bottle into Wales' right hand, "and shut the fuck up."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
Wales is woken by two voices raised in heated argument in the kitchen, punctuated from time to time by what sounds like pans being hurled violently against a wall. Scotland, it seems, must be both awake and sober enough to duck, at least.  
  
Wales' back complains emphatically about him having slept on the hall floor as he slowly pushes himself to his feet, and both his brain and eyes lodge their own protests about him opening his eyelids, pulsing with pain with every attempt.  
  
When he finally persuades them to stay open, he spots Northern Ireland sitting cross-legged nearby, looking slightly green and completely woebegone.  
  
"They've been shouting at each other for about half an hour now," he says quietly, rubbing at the side of his head.  
  
England's voice rises to a pitch that should by rights only be audible to dogs, and the pan-against-wall noise is replaced by something softer which sounds a lot more like Scotland's-fist-against-wall.

"Now, this," Wales informs Northern Ireland, "is something I won't miss _at all_."


End file.
